


Watching

by Lillielle



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Barty Isn't a Fool, Barty's Musings On The Boy Who Lived, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-20
Updated: 2012-11-20
Packaged: 2017-11-19 03:10:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/568406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lillielle/pseuds/Lillielle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drabble-y bit about Barty Crouch Jr. and his thoughts watching Harry Potter. Diverges from canon, particularly by the end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Watching

I watch him every day.

Going about his classes, climbing the steps to the Tower.

I'm always unnoticed, always simply stumping about in the background. The paranoid ex-Auror. Magical eye rolling around in its socket. (Little do they know...even Dumbledore is fooled. Pathetic old man. My Lord will destroy him.)

But this boy...

There is a prophecy, My Lord has confided in me, in his nasally child's whine. He doesn't know it all, doesn't know if there is a way to get to it yet. It states this boy will be his downfall. This boy already tried to kill him once. As a baby. A small puling infant, even smaller than My Lord's current state. A year old, was it? Something like that. I don't pay much attention.

And yet...

This boy is nothing like I have been led to believe. Brash, foolhardy, over-confident. The portrait of a stereotypical Gryffindor. He wears the mask in public, but I have seen it slip in corridors where he thought himself alone, at night when he sneaks out of his dorm to curl up on a window sill, swathed in his father's invisibility cloak--but of course I can see through that. This magical eye is handy in more than one way.

It nearly destroys him when his friend, the Weasley boy, disbelieves him about the Triwizard Tournament. For one burning moment, I feel the impulse to leap up and exclaim that I did it, that I want Potter in the Tournament to face the Dark Lord at the end, but it is an impulse quickly stifled. It would be worse than suicidal.

I watch Harry Potter and for the first time in years, I wonder if My Lord is wrong.

Oh, not in his vision--never that. But in the importance one small, scrawny fourth year student has. Lord Voldemort has never placed much stock in prophecies before. Why now? Is it simply the desire for revenge that burns in his throat, haunts his dreams? I can't ask, but the questions tantalize me.

I follow the boy, take my polyjuice potion, carefully guide Potter to what will help him live through the tournament (it wouldn't do for him to die at a dragon's breath instead of My Lord's hand), teach stuttering gits and empty-headed bints in my customarily harsh way. It is helpful knowing that I can cover nearly anything, and it will be chalked up to Moody's eccentricity.

When the Third Task ends, and Harry is spit back onto the grounds, I know that something has gone wrong. I'm instantly on my feet, heading for his side, cursing the artificial leg that hampers my every movement. He is still alive. How can this be? And yet, I'm not entirely displeased. I wanted him to live, I realize. I want My Lord returned to his proper body, but I want the Potter boy to live.

The boy is clutching the body of Diggory and I realize at least part of what must have happened. The boy is also mud-speckled and blood-stained. Despite how much I want to cart him off to my office for a proper interrogation, I don't dare. The Dark Mark flares and pulses on my arm, thrilling me with each sensation, letting me know that My Lord has succeeded in at least part of his plan. But I can't find out what has gone on, can't take Harry away. Dumbledore will suspect. That is what My Lord impressed upon me before allowing me to leave for Hogwarts, and it is what remains foremost in my mind.

I look around and realize Karkaroff has fled. Coward. He must have felt the Dark Mark come alive and chosen to leave, to desert My Lord. No matter. I know he will pay for his treachery. No one leaves the Dark Lord's service alive.

Harry sobs out his story on Dumbledore's shoulder, a few choice privacy wards erected around them. I of course cast a few subtle charms of my own, allowing myself to hear. I try to suppress the grin on my face, but I fear it shows anyway. Probably as some terribly demented smirk. Well, no matter. Moody always has looked rather insane.

My Lord has returned. I stay and help the boy to the Hospital Wing, leaving him to Madam Pomfrey to be tucked in and fussed over. He looks exhausted, the shadows under his eyes dark as plums. Haunted by Diggory's death. It had to happen, I long to tell him, but know I cannot. Not without betraying my position.

I stump back to my room and wait for the polyjuice to wear off for the night. The morning will come and I will be able to leave soon, citing some emergency or another. It should be relatively easy. I can return to My Lord's side. Serve him in devotion.

I will leave the boy, with his messy shock of dark hair, his haunted green eyes, the way his feet turn slightly inward when he walks. The shy awkwardness that only properly emerges when he is alone, free from the mantle of the Boy Who Lived.

This boy...

Has gotten under my skin and I have a feeling that he will never leave.


End file.
